


the stars they disappear (one by one as the daylight nears)

by Ushio



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canon - Alternative Ending, Episode Ignis Spoilers, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, One Shot, lots and lots of hugs, so much fluff oh my god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-12 21:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13555827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ushio/pseuds/Ushio
Summary: Even after happily-ever-afters there is room for pain and grief and loss. Noctis and Ignis stumble and fall, working their way through a future no-one had expected. Too many things have changed; or perhaps, nothing has changed at all.





	the stars they disappear (one by one as the daylight nears)

**Author's Note:**

> i've been obsessed with this game for a month and it was about damn time i tried writing some ignoct. episode ignis wrecked me and, honestly, that alter!ending was perfect but it did left me wondering how would noctis react to his own survival. i'm not sure i've done the characters justice and i'm not very happy with the end result but if i keep agonizing over details i'm literally never ever posting this shit so. there it goes. reminder that i'm not a native english speaker so sorry for any mistakes!!!  
> i hope y'all enjoy it <3

Noctis has changed. Unavoidable as it was, Ignis feels slightly pained every time he spots a new difference; it is not as if the old Noctis has disappeared but he has been covered by new layers he does not recognize, layers and layers of little changes he wants to peel and undress to uncover who he used to be. Noctis has shifted from his shy and sulky demeanor into an oxymoronic conundrum Ignis does not yet understand. This man he dares not call a stranger is both softer and harder all at once; he's understanding, mature, resolute and kind in a way that shakes Ignis to his very core. Noctis's old boyish awkwardness is long gone and its place stands a man with the dignity and regality of his late father. He has grown into himself; into the man he was always meant to be. But he has also grown sharp, severe, solemn and adamantine. He's unyielding; unrelenting; down-right unrecognizable from time to time.

But over everything else, and this is what pains Ignis the most, Noctis has turned into a sad man. His sadness and melancholy flutter above and around him like an ever-present cloud that always damps the mood. They had all joked Before that Noctis was surly and morose but that had been nothing in comparison with this: this brokenness, this helplessness, this _ache_. Ignis yearns to grab him by the shoulders and shake him up a bit, as if that would fix him right back into his old self. He wants to _scream_ at him to live _on_ , to enjoy his freedom, his fortune, to—

He wants Noctis to smile without breaking Ignis's heart in the process.

It may be too much to ask.

“Your Highness, do you feel quite alright?”

They're standing in one of those long, carpeted hallways that run through the Citadel. Were on their way to meet Gladio and Prompto for lunch before Noctis _had to_ stop to stare at something out of the ceiling-to-floor high windows. Ignis has been waiting patiently by his side for nearly five minutes, granting him the space he so sorely needs — but they will be late to their date and he doesn't want to worry their friends. Gods know Ignis Scientia is never late.

When he speaks up Noctis startles a little, brought back from his reverie, and turns to look at Ignis with a wet, sorrowful gaze that knocks the air straight out of his lungs. He's moving before he can reign himself, reaching for Noctis's arm and carefully placing a hand on his shoulder. He wants to do more than that; wants to draw him into an embrace so tight their chests would be pressed flush and their heartbeats would keep in step at once. He wants to brush the hair out of his face, wipe off his tears and kiss away all the fears he keeps on a lockdown, hidden, even from his closest friends. All these fears that have shadowed his gaze. Ignis just _wants_ Noctis, wholly, deeply-so—

So, instead, he does what he knows best: ignores his own wants and needs and focuses whole-heartedly on his king. With one hand he sends a text to Gladio and Prompto through their group chat, letting them know they won't make it today; with the other, he gently guides Noctis towards the nearest elevator. He follows along, meekly. Gladio texts back half a second later, asking _is there anything we can do?_ and Ignis gently brushes him off. This is the first time _he_ has seen Noctis so shaken up but it cannot be the first time it has happened, which means he has been hiding it from them. Which means he wouldn't want his privacy breached, not even to his friends. Not now, at least. Prompto texts then, a long string of emojis and exclamation points that accompany very few actual _words_ — Noctis will smile the moment he sees it. He hasn't spoken yet, as if he was not quite here, and Ignis is growing increasingly worried. He has half a mind to call for medical aid by the time they make it to Noctis's rooms. Maybe he is not properly equipped to deal with this. Maybe—

“Oh.” Noctis mutters the word but Ignis hears it akin to a scream.              

“Noct...”

“These are my old rooms.”

“Would you prefer to go to—?”

“No. No, this is fine. I...” Noctis spins around, taking everything in. The whole set of rooms have been renovated since he reclaimed the throne, as has most of the castle, wrecked apart by the long decade of darkness — and no-one has dared disturbed them because they're traditionally meant for the firstborn heir of the House of Lucis. A prospect so distant and daunting that none of the newly appointed council-members have yet tried to bring it up. It will happen, though, sooner or later. Ignis knows and understands this. And some years down the lane, these rooms that once belonged to a young, scared little Prince, will be home to a happier child. Free of the burdens that have plagued the Caelums for millennia. Free of the crystal. Of the endless war. 

Noctis seems to have reached the same conclusion and something soothes in his posture, easing away the hunched shoulders and the pale demeanor. He strolls around, poking at the new pieces of furniture and parting the heavy drapes to let in some sunlight; it spills, blindingly yellow, over the carpeted hard-wood floors. A small cloud of dust floats over the patches of light and the particles twirl between them. However, while Noctis seems oddly pleased (as Ignis's gut-feeling had predicted), Ignis himself feels displaced and disgruntled. Everything has changed. The wallpaper, the sofas, the carpets, even the damned curtains. They barely feel like Noctis's, like his own old rooms anymore. They had lived here together for nearly a decade — and now he can barely recognize the first place he called home. It's a stupid little thing to worry about yet it pains him all the same

The space itself has not changed. But everything else did.

“It seems the cleaning staff have not been to these rooms in a while. Should I fix the issue?”

“There's no need.”

There's a brief silence. And then:

“Ignis, why did you bring me here?”

“You're avoiding your new quarters. You barely spend any time there at all and several servants have seen you napping on your office or the library. You're barely sleeping, aren't you?” He does not say this as a jab nor does he mean any more criticism that plain concern but Noctis flinches all the same and avoids his gaze.

When he speaks, his voice is bitter; hollow.

“I can't sleep there. My father's ghost keeps me awake.”

“Not literally, I hope?”

“Might as well. I see him by the foot of the bed every time I walk by. Standing near the window or reflected in the mirror. He's always staring at me with that heavy gaze, all those expectations, all those hopes pined on me—“

“You exceeded them all,” says Ignis, softly.

And Noctis, surprisingly enough, _barks_ a laugh that seems to wreak havoc through his body. A laugh that shakes him whole; an acerbic, wet noise. Ignis hurries to him without even realizing it, his hands reaching for his arm, for his skin — he wants nothing more than ease away his pain. He raises his knuckles and grazes Noctis's cheek, cupping his jaw with gentle fingers. Noctis closes his eyes and leans into his touch. It has been a long time since he last did this. Some part of him remains wary, wired taunt, ready to spring away the moment Noctis shows any measure of discomfort — but nothing comes except the placid warmth of familiarity and deep-seated friendship. He's allowed this. Despite everything he doesn't yet know about his king, he's _allowed_ this and Ignis revels in the touch as much as Noctis does. Slowly, they gravitate towards each other, drawing closer, breathing the other in. Noctis rests his forehead against Ignis's and he places his other hand at his waist. It is not quite an embrace yet it feels vastly more intimate than that. Noctis unfurls beneath his touch, his usual poise unraveling like silk thread between his fingers. Something breaks within him and Ignis gets a glimpse, through the cracks, of the man he used to know. He is still there; here. Everything else has changed but not this.

When the first tear falls over his throat, Ignis pulls him closer and tightens his arms around him. Noctis weeps against his collarbone, his bad knee giving in, and they sag dangerously close to the window — the blindingly butter-yellow light of noon shines upon Noctis like a blaze. Set alight, his king sobs and says:

“I should have died. I — I was meant to die. _That's_ what they expected of me.” His voice quivers something fierce and Ignis feels shaken as well. A heaviness sets in his guts.

“Noctis, please.”

“ _I don't know how to live._ ” He straightens up a bit, eyes red and tear-rimmed, his whole face tread with grief. “I had made my peace with it. I was _ready_. It's just... not fair. That I should live while they rot. Father and Luna.”

Ignis could say something trite and corny like _I'm sure they would have wanted you to live on_ but the truth is he does not know. No-one can know because they're dead and Noctis will always have to live on with their sacrifices. He did not have the time to grieve, before everything, and now he has to. It would be cruel to demand happiness of him; to ask him to gladly accept their fate. Ignis knows that if Noctis had died for them, as it had been prophesied, he would have skinned alive anyone who dared to say _it was necessary_ or _just_. He understands. But that doesn't make it any easier to bear.

“It's okay, Noct,” he says, as softly as he can manage. The words roll heavy over his tongue, their meaning enormous. “You're entitled to your feelings. You don't have to justify yourself to anyone. Not me, not Gladio or Prompto and certainly not the common folk. You deserve time to grieve.”

Noctis stares at him through his tears and smiles a terribly sad little smile.

“That's the thing, Iggy. I'm _tired_ of grieving. I want...” His hands close over Ignis's, rough fingers lacing with his gloved ones. “I want to enjoy being alive. I want to laugh with you guys, I want to snark at Prompto's pictures and I want to train with Gladio and I want...”

Noctis looks at him and Ignis _trembles_. It’s the same look he gave him the night before they were due to Altissia. The air changes around them, frizzled with enough magic to make the hairs on Ignis's arms stand on end. His guts coil and tighten; his whole body flushes with longing, hard enough to shake him loose. There are few things he has treasured more than the memories of that night. He had tried not to think much of it since Noctis's return; because he had seemed so distant and different that surely such feelings had been long forgotten. But now, now—

“I have never stopped wanting you,” says Noctis, feather-soft, honey-sweet. Ignis's heart is breaking already because he _understands_.

“Neither have I.” Soft words laced with a softer smile.

They exchange a look and, with it, an entire unspoken conversation. It would be so easy to give in to this. It would feel _so good_ to have, to take, to touch and own — to find their way back together after such a long time apart. It would be nice.

“But I just can't shake off the guilt.” Says Noctis, his voice hoarse and hurried, a crushing whisper that weights over their minds, that anchors them back to the ground. The quivering fear within his voice is a reality check. “I don't deserve this, you, I don’t... I'm conflicted.”

Noctis rests his head over Ignis’s shoulder and tries to regain control of his breathing. Ignis waits patiently, pulling him even closer, embracing him and rubbing his hands over his back. They rock a little from side to side and it almost feels like dancing; gently, they sway.

“Talk me through it,” says Ignis. His king takes a sharp breath. For a moment there is no answer and the seconds stretch by, agonizingly so — then he speaks, his voice muffled against Ignis’s shirt.

“If... if I try to live happily on then a crushing guilt reminds me of everyone who sacrificed themselves to help me get here. Including you. Don't think I will ever forget.” His words are accompanied by a light touch to the scarring beneath his left eye. Ignis closes his eyes at the touch, indulging in it for just a second. Then Noctis continues and he blinks away the pain. “I just don’t feel worthy of this. And yet, the grief is even worse. Because I'm hurting all of you with my selfishness, because I am being ungrateful, because—”

He's talking faster, rambling, his words tripping and tumbling over each-other and Ignis can almost taste his panic, his fear, his anxiety. He keeps tangling himself in his own self-doubt and loathing, in his insecurities and his pain; Ignis wants nothing more than to undo him, to soothe him, to calm the furiously rapid beat of his heart.

“Noctis,” says Ignis, louder, in the commanding tone which he has always used to get him to eat his vegetables and clean up his bedroom. His king looks up, startled, and Ignis feels a pang in his chest; there’s such hopelessness in his expression. He seems so lost. “I said it before and I shall say it again: you don't have to justify yourself.”

“But—”

“No. Whatever you feel is valid. If you're not ready for a relationship, I will wait. I would wait until the end of the world.”

It is too much. Too heavy, too soon — Ignis regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth. He panics briefly, his heart already racing wildly in his chest, but Noctis just — laughs. It’s not a cruel or mean, so much as fond. Familiar. He blushes prettily, pale cheeks flushed with blood, and he tilts his head to the side, shy. It’s the kind of vulnerability that no-one else gets to see. The kind of delicacy only Ignis is privy to. Such a youthful, bashful expression looks almost wrong on a grown-man’s face but it suits Noctis. It takes years of heartbreak and hurt away from him.

“Cheesy.” Jokes Noctis, a frail-looking smile gracing his face. Ignis wonders how many times can one fall in love with the same man. “I can’t ask that of you, Iggy. You give me so much already—”

“It’s not about me or what I want, Noct. It’s about what you _need_. Right now, we have to work on helping you feel better. You deserve to grieve, yes, but you also deserve to feel happy. You have earned it, Noct. And it is not ungrateful of you to struggle with this — it's normal. It's expected, almost. I was starting to worry the Crystal had replaced you with an MT.”

“Hey!” Noctis pushes him lightly and Ignis's smile grows. The tension between them slowly dissolves. “Do you mean it, though?”

_Will you wait for me?_

“As long as it takes. We have time, Highness. We have all the time in the world.”

 _This_ is what he had fought for. This is why he had risked his life, his senses, his very soul — this is what he was ready to die for. Nothing but the chance, the mere _chance_ of Noctis finding happiness beyond his fate. A future untainted by death; a world where they could both exist, beneath the light, within the light, alive and well. Trembling, Ignis holds him in his arms; he had thought this man so different from the Noctis he once knew, a stranger wearing his skin, a nobody carrying his heart. How wrong he had been. How deeply he wants to weep now that he has found his way back home again. Hugging Noctis is like finding a long-lost doorknob, an entrance to an old world. It’s like toeing off his shoes and dropping his jacket on a couch. Like making his way through a flat a thousand times walked before, and despite the changes, feeling it as always — like home.

Gingerly, though, Ignis takes a step back and Noctis reluctantly lets him go. Ignis takes a good, long, hard look at Noctis and _actually_ takes notice of all the little details he should have noticed before. Noctis shuffles in his spot, irked.

“Noctis, when was the last time you slept?”

The question seems to throw him off but he makes a valiant, if ineffective, effort to speak.

“Hm... yesterday...? When did we have the agricultural meeting? I think I took a nap right before it.”

 _Two days ago_. Ignis could (and should) shoot himself for his ineptitude. Maybe Prompto would be willing to help. But for now, there are more pressing issues at hand. Such as getting the king to bed.

“Come. You need some rest, Noct. And when you wake up, we can discuss how we will tackle... well, all.”

 _Including: your mental health issues,_ my _mental health issues and hopefully whatever this relationship will turn out to be_.

“That sounds overwhelming already,” says Noctis, sighing. He makes a little distressed noise and Ignis picks up the issue at once.

“I’m not taking you to your quarters. You can sleep in my bed for a while.”

“Just a while?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?” Ignis offers his hand to him, smiling kindly, and Noctis barely hesitates before taking hold of it and lacing their fingers together. It’s solid, real, warm. It’s a start. “Don’t worry, love. There will be time.”

“I hope some of that time can be devoted to an extensive debate about how you are _never_ using a pet name ever again.”

“Whatever pleases His Majesty,” says Ignis obligingly.

Noctis harrumphs, annoyed, and Ignis bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling. Some things never change at all.

 


End file.
